Rails Rebooted
by RetroCaboose
Summary: Somewhere far away, but not too far, from the Island of Sodor, there was a railway known only as the Little Railway. But "Little" doesn't begin to describe the size of one of the last safe havens for steam.


My body was rattling, I was almost ready to fall apart. I hadn't moved in so long that I had forgotten what a constant breeze of air on my face felt like. Everything around me was dark, except for the lamp up ahead. I was watching the steady rise and fall of another engine's coupling rods. They looked like a diesel; Not like the ones that had taken work from our railway, but much smaller.

I had only woken up a few times during our journey. The first time happened as I was being pulled out of the siding which had been my home for the past four decades. The second time was when we transferred from the smooth ride of the mainline to the bumps and curves of a new set of tracks.

I looked at my own appearance. I was coated with years of rust and dirt, not a surprise considering how long I'd been stuck. I was riddled with holes from where people had carved out sections of my sides to take spare parts for newer, better engines. The cool night wind rushed over the space where the roof of my cab should have been. My bufferbeam was twisted and battered, held together by a few tight ropes. The topside of my boiler, from my funnel to my whistle, was smooth and flat.

At some point, the tracks passed by a more populated area. With the engine in front of me, I couldn't see much except for bright lights and tall buildings-taller than those that had been built in my time-on my left side. On my right side was another set of tracks, and then a steep drop to the sea. Waves crashed against ancient and weathered cliffs. Across the water, I could see a massive ocean liner floating. The city wrapped around the bay, with bright lights illuminating the titan as it wandered aimlessly, yet determinedly beneath the starless sky.

I winced at the sound of a thunderous whistle. The rails began to shake as another train passed us. The diesel that had taken me from the siding answered the call with three long notes from their horn. A large engine blocked my view of the water. They pulled a line of mixed wagons, but the train was turned into a blur by the speed at which it raced past us. When the train finally came to an end, I was taken aback by the fact that we appeared to be slowing down.

The distance between the buildings and the tracks had been reduced dramatically. Now it was almost as if we were passing through an alley. Towering walls of concrete caused all of the noise of my new "friend" to echo back at the both of us. As soon as they put on their brakes, I thought that I was bound to go deaf from the screeching and scraping of metal on metal. Once the noise had subsided, we had come to a stop. I could see a hazy light directly in front of us, eclipsed by the diesel. After a moment, I heard the door creak open and I began moving again.

"Oi, look what the cat done went and dragged in," muttered a gruff voice. It wasn't the diesel.

"It's gonna be tough to find replacement parts and get a new crew," added another voice, "Stopped building those back in the Forties, right?"

The light grew brighter as I saw the doorway pass by me. The track had funneled into an open warehouse, criss-crossed with railway lines. A crane was suspended from the ceiling. It glided smoothly across its track with an engine block at the end of its hook. Metal machinery of varying forms lay haphazardly strewn across the floor. I heard the metallic crunch of my escort running over a forgotten tool.

"A lot of work to be done here," observed the second voice, "But I wouldn't want to gut him and risking losing him."

A man walked by and waved at us. I'm sure he meant to wave at the diesel, but I mustered a smile in return. It had been so long since I had last smiled that I felt like my lips would split open and start bleeding.

"Should we have a go at him?" asked a worker as he counted the tools on a cart.

"He's sleeping...I think," started the diesel, "We can begin in the morning."

The familiar sound of a steam engine passed by. I looked to my right, but it was already gone. I managed to speak up in a hoarse, dry voice.

"Where am I?"

The diesel stopped suddenly, causing me to slam into his back.

"Pardon?" he asked politely.

"He said 'Where am I?'" the unknown voice replied from the track next to us.

I looked down to see a small engine driving alongside us. With his size, I hadn't noticed him until now. I hadn't seen anything like him before, but his squat and boxy body reminded me of a riverboat, especially when combined with his tall smokestack. A minimalistic steel plate on top of thin poles made up his roof, providing little protection from the elements for his crew.

"Ah," the diesel finally answered, "You're at Newsburg."

"Newsburg?" I asked.

"Oh that's just great," complained a new voice. I looked over to see another narrow-gauge engine, the smallest yet, pushing a flatbed of wheels. "We've got a stranger from a strange land! What if he's carrying some mainline disease that'll turn our boiler pipes into swiss cheese!?"

"Then I'll be fine," the diesel chortled.

"Cross-contamination is a thing!" shouted the other engine.

"Not for machines!" laughed a worker.

"I might have plants growing in me, or some spiders, but that's all."

"Oh he's real talkative now that he's inside," the diesel said aside, "I rambled for hours and hadn't heard as much as a peep from him!"

"Hours!? Jesus Christ, Art! You're bound to upset the balance of this railway by bringing in something from across the continent."

The diesel, Art, quickly backed into a siding. A machine uncoupled him from me, and he slowly drove away. The smaller engine continued pacing around the shop while the larger one came to a stop right next to me. I looked down at him, and he smiled cheerfully.

"I'm seeing a lot of potential with you. That is, of course, if everything goes right."

"Quit it! You're gonna freak him out."

The droning of a machine filled the room as Art turned around to face me. The turntable finally stopped, and Art rolled off with a cart loaded up with cardboard boxes.

"Not much can scare me," I reassured Art, "I've seen a lot of things coming and going from the scrapyard."

"Just another reason why you should've brought him right to the quarantine shed instead!" one of the engines called from across the workshop.

A man climbed out of Art's cab and began opening up each box. From each, he pulled out an assortment of specialized tools and mechanical parts.

"I wanted to start a checkup right away," Art explained, "Besides, Seamus uses that place to nap in between jobs."

"Then tell him to get out of the way."

"You crazy?" laughed the engine beside me, "He's got the face of someone who's one bad day away from pushing a train of orphans into the harbor."

"Jesus Christ, Winston! What's the matter with you?"

"Don't deny it," Winston answered, "Lucky we have different track gauges-If I need to, I can hide in one of those corners, and he'll be too big to follow."

"Well you're right, but you still shouldn't say it," Art muttered.

I felt the pressure of someone climbing up onto my footplate. He muttered something to himself before switching on a flashlight and scanning around at the cobwebs and ivy that covered the gears, switches, and levers that had once allowed me to run under my own strength.

"I'd just as soon tell Seamus about you badmouthing him. He'll find a way to make your life hell."

A shrill whistle echoed through the yards, and the shadow of a tank engine passed by one of the large windows on the far wall. Winston paled, and immediately went silent.

"Speak of the devil…"

"He's really not that bad," a mechanic whispered to me, "He's just kind of rough. His class came over from America just after D-Day. He's seen and been a part of stuff that even you couldn't stomach."

Winston immediately eased as the sound of the engine began to fade into the distance.

"What, he's been assigned a job at this hour?" asked the small engine.

"Beats me. He'll be back though, so I'd best make myself scarce."

A workman dragged a hose across the floor and handed it to the man inspecting my cab. Icy-cold water began to cover the floor of my cab, washing out the nearly half-century of grime.

Art's engine shut off as his crew left the workshop. Winston continued trying to analyze me the best he could from the track next to mine.

"You've quite a ways to go before you're completely ship-shape. Gonna have to rework your innards, get you a new tender, find a crew…"

"Tender?" asked the small engine, "How do you figure?"

"Look at him, Patch-He's got no backside! Plus, there's that sort of 'big and fast' quality to him."

"What?"

"It's a Gresley design. I'd guess an A3 or a V2, but I thought all but one of each was scrapped."

"God in Heaven, do you know what the word 'tact' means?"

The workmen laughed. The hose was turned off and pulled out of my cab. The water that covered the workshop floor was almost black with filth. A man with a mop grimaced at the sight, but nonetheless set to work on drying the area.

"No, Winston's right," I admitted, "My brothers and sisters were scrapped. That's what happened to most of my family after diesels and electrics started replacing us."

"God…"

The workshop air was tense, signalling that the conversation had taken a dark turn thanks to me. Patch rolled smoothly behind a tool cart and gave it a firm shove. It began rolling down the tracks towards Winston.

"At least that's what I'm assuming. We got split up when things started changing-Haven't heard from any of them, but, last I heard, Arrow got rescued by some place in York."

"Arrow?" Patch asked. He was starting to loosen up in his attitude. "You mean Green Arrow from the London and North Eastern?"

"Yeah, I guess. He was the oldest of us. Stopped doing runs sometime in the Sixties and never came back."

"You seem really casual talking about how you're the next-to-last V2 left operational," Winston observed.

"Oh please," Patch rolled his eyes, "You got him started on it."

"It was just thinking out loud. But now we know he's a V2, that narrows down the list of places we'll need to search for parts."

A mechanic stepped over the shrinking puddle of dirty water and picked up a drill from the tool cart. I soon felt the tickling sensation of him boring small holes in the side of my boiler. I could see Patch grimace from the other side of the workshop.

"Got any leftovers from our repairs?"

"Doubt it-We've only got two other tender engines from the LNER. Cassie's an older model, different builder than the V2, although Daniel _was_ built at Doncaster." Winston quickly turned his attention to one of the workers. "See if you can get Daniel in here."

The buzz of the workshop had begun to die down without any extra parts to spare. A second hose was aimed at my wheels and turned to full blast. The water was pressurized, and it hit me with a force that I feared would strip what was left of my paint along with the dirt. The other two engines didn't seem to worry, however, so I sat without complaint.

"Anybody here besides Dan and Cassie's crew members know how to handle a LNER tender engine?" Art asked with a loud yawn. I was almost surprised. I thought he had fallen asleep after our long journey.

"It won't matter, I'm a fast learner." I smiled again. "Very cooperative too."

"Yeah, that's good. What did you do on your old railway?"

"Passenger work. Ran mixed traffic until the diesels took over my goods trains. Once they started taking the coaches too, we were out of work."

I paused. Art looked at me with a vacant expression while Winston chuckled softly to himself. My eyes widened in horror.

"N-not that I have anything against diesels!" I said abruptly.

"Didn't get that vibe off you anyway."

"Touchy subject," a workman with a flippant tone, "Race relations and all."

"Can't trust any diesels," Patch added casually, "What the others on my old line used to say. Some are good, though."

"Some?" Winston asked.

The workshop crane passed overhead and lowered its hook. A workman looped a chain underneath my wheels and slung them onto the hook. It looked like I had been put in a siding without an inspection pit, and the mechanics would now need to lift me in order to get a look at me from every angle. Winston blew his whistle and reversed backwards with the tool cart.

"All clear!" shouted the crane operator.

With the loud squeaking of machinery, I was lifted from the ground. From my new height, I could see the workshop for the labyrinth of tracks and other structures it truly was. I groaned loudly as a sharp pain shot through my body.

"You know," began Winston, "I just realised something."

"Yeah?" the three of us other engines asked.

"I don't think we got your name, stranger."

"Oh. Well..."

"You're right! We haven't asked for his name."

"My name is…"

One of my ropes snapped, releasing the pain from my body. The whole of my bufferbeam fell to the ground and made a noise loud enough to echo throughout the entire workshop. Patch had jumped backwards, and Art was now fully awake.

I said something, surely not my name. I had forgotten my given name during my time in the scrapyard. Something did come out of my mouth, however, but it was probably nothing more than a whisper. The ringing of the metal piece had finally stopped.

"...But most people, and other engines, call me Troy."


End file.
